


Oh, Comely

by beetle



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Post-Inception
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 11:38:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this inception_kink prompt, "Ariadne comes out to everyone. Eames throws her a coming-out party or something and tries to find her a girlfriend. Just.. anything with queer!Ariadne and queer!Eames being best friends would be awesome. Ariadne and the OFC’s relationship, as well as Arthur and Eames’s relationship, was inspired by 'Oh, Comely,' by Neutral Milk Hotel."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh, Comely

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I’m only borrowing.  
> Notes: Set post-movie by about eight months.

  
Ariadne’s sketching in her moleskine—a gift from Arthur—when the man in question strolls up the narrow staircase and into the workspace with Eames in tow. The two are holding hands and talking quietly.  
  
They get even quieter when they see Ariadne sitting in one of the folding lawn-chairs, cross-legged, with one eyebrow raised.  
  
Eames is the first one to break from their freeze, smiling wryly. “Well. Hello, lovely. You’re here earlier than usual.”  
  
“Figured I’d get a head-start on the day.” Her eyes tick down to their linked hands, then back up to meet their gazes: Eames’s is merry and self-deprecating, Arthur’s is completely unreadable (which means he’s extremely uncomfortable).  
  
It’s too early for beating around the bush, so Ariadne chooses to cut to the chase. “So. How long’s this been going on?”  
  
“How long’s what been going on?” Arthur asks, at the same time Eames replies: “About eight months.”  
  
_Since the Inception_ , Ariadne thinks, surprised, but somehow . . .  _not_.  
  
“Jason—shut up!” Arthur hisses, trying to free his hand, but Eames won’t let him, pulling it to his mouth and kissing it lingeringly.  
  
“You’ll have to excuse him, lovely, but he’s a bit skittish about anyone knowing. Likes to keep me his dirty little secret. Isn’t that right, darling?”  
  
Arthur turns brick-red—the first time Ariadne’s ever seen him blush. “No, it’s not, Mr. Eames. I just . . . prefer to tell people in my own time.”  
  
“So half-past never, then?” Eames chuckles fondly, kissing Arthur’s hand again. Arthur finally frees it and crosses his arms mulishly.  
  
Fascinated at the barely noticeable change in their interaction and personal dynamic, Ariadne closes her moleskine and sits it on the floor next to her chair.  
  
“Does Cobb know about you two?” she asks, leaning forward. Arthur sighs, still not appearing as uncomfortable as he must be. Eames, on the other hand, appears to be tickled.  
  
“ _Not even_  Cobb knows,” he announces, as if this amuses and pleases him greatly. “For once, the great man is in the dark about something, instead of us.”  
  
“Yeah, and I’m not ready to tell him, either, so you gotta keep this mum, Ariadne,” Arthur adds, still straight-faced, but with a pleading look in his eyes. Ariadne cocks her head curiously and Arthur actually winces a little under her open regard.  
  
“But I thought Cobb was your best friend? Do you think he wouldn’t approve?”  
  
“I . . . I don’t know. I’ve never come out to him before, let alone with a boyfriend in tow.” Arthur sighs, his mask finally slipping into something tense and unhappy. Eames tuts and pulls him close, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Arthur even leans into him for a moment.  
  
“Well, I think you’re greatly underestimating how understanding Cobb can be,  _but_ ,” Ariadne says, smiling a little, “but I, for one, approve heartily. You have both my blessings and my sincerest well-wishes.”  
  
Eames smiles back. “And it means the world to us that you’re on our side—doesn’t it, darling?”  
  
Arthur attempts a smile, too. What he comes up with is crooked, but genuine. “It, uh . . . it really does. Of everyone on the team, if someone had to find out like this, I’m glad it was you.”  
  
She blushes, pleased and more than a little touched. But she doesn’t let that sidetrack her. “Eventually you’re gonna have to tell the rest of the team, though. They’ll figure it out for themselves, anyway, even though you guys’ve been pretty good at the covert ops, until now.” She taps her knee with her charcoal pencil and watches Eames beam and Arthur squirm.  
  
“We know, lovely, we know. We just need some more time.”  _We_  very much meaning Arthur, Eames's tone implies, but without rancor.  
  
Ariadne suddenly feels very sorry for poor Arthur, living up to an image that was never his to begin with—so invested in that image that once, he’d even kissed  _her_.  
  
As if he can read what she’s thinking, Arthur smiles apologetically. Ariadne shakes her head, still smiling to show him it’s okay.  
  
“If it’ll help . . . I could come out, first,” she offers tentatively, holding her breath for their reactions.  
  
Arthur gapes, but Eames grins. “Oh, lovely,” he says then busses Arthur’s cheek. “You owe me one hundred pounds, darling.”  
  
It’s Ariadne’s turn to gape.  
  
“Eames has the most accurate gaydar I’ve ever seen,” Arthur explains, some of his customary composure returning. “How do you think he got  _me_.”  
  
Ariadne closes her mouth, only for it to drop open again when Eames pulls Arthur to him and dips him, like something out of an old-fashioned tango.  
  
“I got  _you_  through three years of bloody  _tireless_  persistence.” He kisses Arthur lingeringly, pulling him upright as he does so. “The gaydar just pointed me in the right direction.”  
  
And while Arthur is still looking dazed and kind of goofy about the face, Eames returns his attention to Ariadne. “So. Is there some rather mannish woman out there that needs threatening to keep her in line?”  
  
Ariadne bursts out laughing. “Actually, no. I’m single and have been for over a year.”  
  
“What—since before the Inception?” Arthur blurts out, shocked. Even Eames looks surprised.  
  
“That’s unexpected,” he says then clarifies after sharing a glance with Arthur, who shrugs. “Not that we think you’re a wanton slut, or something, but you’re smart, comely, and all around wonderful. That some lucky woman hasn’t snapped you up is. . . .”  
  
“Baffling,” Arthur finishes for him, and Eames nods. They both stare at her as if she’s some particularly novel form of abstract art. Now it’s Ariadne’s turn to squirm.  
  
“I just haven’t found the right woman,” she says defensively, taking up her moleskine again. The building she’d been working on is mostly done, but it could use some extra flourishes. . . .  
  
“Haven’t found, or haven’t been looking?” At this, Arthur elbows Eames hard enough to make the other man grunt.  
  
“Sorry. It’s really none of our business,” he apologizes. Eames snorts, rubbing his side gingerly.  
  
“Speak for yourself, darling. Our sweet Ari’s happiness is very much my business.” Eames gazes at her with a scarily intent look on his face. Arthur rolls his eyes again.  
  
“Oh, Lord, here we go,” he mutters wearily.  
  
“Arthur and I know plenty of women who’d love a chance with you,” Eames says thoughtfully. “Most of them are in the business, as well. Architects and Pointmen. Er, Point _women_ —there’s even a lesbian Forger I know. Granted, she and I parted on rather less than cordial terms. . . .”  
  
“If you wanna call her shooting you in the arm ‘less than cordial,’ yeah,” Arthur huffs. “And we’re not setting Ariadne up with Nell. She’s borderline psychotic. I don’t want her within a thousand miles of either of you.”  
  
“Oh, he’s so possessive and butch, isn’t he?” Eames glances at Arthur fondly. “And no, I wouldn’t set up a Mark I hated with Nell. She was just an illustrative example.”  
  
“Your  _illustrative example_ s are enough to put a Stephen King novel to shame.”  
  
“Stephen King is a hack—dunno why you even read him, love.”  
  
“Says the man who has nightmares about Dead Lord Cthulhu.” Arthur snorts. “You wanna talk hackery, let’s talk Lovecraft, shall we? And this time, leave August Derleth out of it.”  
  
“Oh-ho-ho, darling, you picked the wrong day to cross wits with me on August Derleth. It just so happens—“  
  
“Hey!” When they both look at her as if having forgotten she was there, Ariadne smiles as politely, but as firmly as she can. “Look, thanks for caring guys, but I don’t need you to set me up with anyone—“ she starts to say, but Eames tuts at her.  
  
“Of  _course_  you do, lovely! Every woman needs a gay best friend to be her wingman! And you’ve got  _two_!”  
  
“You’re like a carnival sideshow.” Arthur shakes his head and covers his eyes. Eames pulls him close and kisses his temple.  
  
“Perhaps, but you  _love_  the rides,” Eames says, and Arthur turns brick-red again. “Rest assured, dearest Ari: Eames and Arthur are on the case.”  
  
“We’re not. We’re really not,” Arthur says, but hopelessly, like a man who knows he's lost a battle.  
  
“Ignore him, lovely.  _I_  do. We’re your friends, we care about you, and we’ll do our best to see you paired off with someone who  _deserves_  you. Someone who—bollocks. Here the subject must lie, for now.” Eames murmurs regretfully. A second later, Ariadne can hear heavy footsteps clumping up the stairs, and Yusuf’s voice roundly cursing northern climes and biblical amounts of snow.  
  


*

  
  
“ . . . and if the Projections even make it  _that_  far, the Penrose Stairs’ll stop 'em,” Ariadne concludes.  
  
She and Arthur grin at each other.  
  
“Paradox,” he says as the front door opens and shuts downstairs, letting in a cold draft.  
  
“The amount of glee you two derive from slaughtering projections borders on pathological,” Yusuf comments from his desk. He’s scribbling formulas on a notepad with one hand and drinking his second cup of coffee with the other.  
  
“Well, it’s not like they’re  _real_ ,” Ariadne says, and Arthur makes a strange sound, rubbing his knee.  
  
“Real enough, sometimes,” he mutters. Then he sighs. “Hence the Penrose Stairs. But in any event, it shouldn’t come to that. The job’s a straightforward Extraction. The Mark isn’t militarized, and we’ve got the best Extractor and Forger in the business on our side.”  
  
“Oh, darling, you say the sweetest things!”  
  
Eames pauses at the top step of the large loft which functions as their current workspace. And he’s not alone: behind him is a tall, willowy bleach-blonde, wearing fashionable winter clothes that showcase her slender, well-proportioned body, but hardly look warm enough for a Boston winter.  
  
She glances around the workspace disinterestedly, until her eyes come to rest on Ariadne. Then she smiles, all perfect and perfectly predatory teeth.  
  
“Everyone, this is Francesca, an old friend of mine from university,” Eames says without preamble, drawing her forward with a hand at the small of her back. “Francesca, this is the crew—there’s Yusuf, our brilliant Chemist, and Arthur, our delicious Pointman. And that vision in, er, plaid and denim is Ariadne, our Architect.”  
  
“Charmed to make your acquaintances,” Francesca says in a crisp English accent that’s nothing like Eames’s relaxed drawl. Her eyes haven’t left Ariadne since they first settled on her, and Ariadne can’t help but feel like she’s not only being mentally undressed, but mentally  _devoured_. It makes her want to pull her over-shirt around her much more closely. Then button it. Then arc-weld those buttons to the fabric.  
  
“Excuse me, Mr. Eames, but—what the  _fuck_  is going on?” Arthur blurts out, his face settled in stern, angry lines. Eames seems taken aback.  
  
“Arthur,  _darling_  . . . you remember Francesca, don’t you?”  
  
Arthur smiles, polite but stony. “Of course, I do. It’s a delight to see you again, Ms. Rampling—”  
  
“Oh, do call me ‘Frannie.' Everyone does,” she interrupts him to say, winking at Ariadne, who has to fight not to make a face.  
  
“—but unfortunately we don’t allow non-crew into our workspace during a job. You understand, don’t you?” Arthur’s smile is downright dangerous, now, and if Ariadne didn’t know better, she’d swear he was reaching for one of his guns. “Hopefully a little better than Mr. Eames seems to.”  
  
Now Franscesca turns to Eames, seeming confused and a bit discomfited by Arthur’s flat, intent stare. “I thought you said you cleared everything with your little Pointman. That your young Architect needed something in the way of . . . mentoring.”  
  
“ _Mentoring!_ ” Ariadne demands, at the same time Arthur exclaims: “ _Little!_ ”  
  
Eames laughs—a fake-sounding party laugh—and his eyes dart between his boyfriend and his Architect. “Did I say ‘mentoring’? Well, I do beg your pardon, Frannie. What I meant to say that it seemed a brilliant idea to introduce two of the world’s best Architects to each other.” Cue a big, shit-eating grin.  
  
“I’m really gonna have to ask that you leave, Ms. Rampling,” Arthur says, in a tone that’s definitely not  _asking_  anything.  
  
Still stunned, Francesca nods, swallowing and meeting each eye in the room, settling last on Ariadne’s. She tries to pull off a sultry smile, but it merely looks gobsmacked and uncertain.  
  
“Well, then, perhaps you and I might go for a coffee and . . . compare techniques?” Francesca says innocently enough but that predatory look is making a hesitant comeback.  
  
Ariadne smiles absently. “Oh, I could tell you  _all about_  my techniques, but then—“ Ariadne shifts in her chair just enough to pull her Smith & Wesson M&P out of her waistband. When Francesca’s green eyes widen, Ariadne’s  _smile_  widens and she places the gun on the table next to her after clicking off the safety. “But then I’d have to kill you.”  
  
Francesca looks at Eames, who laughs again, looking like he’s constipated.  
  
“Well. It seems there’s been a  _slight_  crossing of purposes, here,” he begins, and Francesca _hmphs_.  
  
“More than slight, I’d say.” Yusuf sips his coffee, watching them all avidly. Francesca glares at him, then whirls around, stomping down the stairs muttering about how everyone was right, that the Cobb Extraction Team is bloody  _bonkers_.  
  
After the loft door slams shut, everyone looks at Ariadne.  
  
“Oh, what?” she says, clicking the safety on her gun.   
  
“You’ve been spending too much time with Arthur, is what,” Yusuf says, going back to his notes and his coffee. Ariadne grins.  
  
“I named her  _Miranda_ ,” she tells them, patting the gun lovingly.  
  
Just then, the door to the entrance slams open, then slams shut again,  
  
“Well, she’s a persistent little minx,” Eames says plummily, but acting chastened when Arthur sends a  _look_  his way. Sighing, Ariadne clicks the safety off once more. But quiet, familiar footsteps start up the stairs, and even before she sees the flash of—genuine—blond she knows whom it is.  
  
She re-safeties the gun and puts it away just as Cobb enters, bearing a huge box from Dunkin’ Donuts. He has snow in his hair and on his shoulders, and he’s smiling.  
  
“Was that Frannie Rampling that just stormed by me?” he asks, seeming bemused, but not particularly worried. The same can’t be said for Arthur, who throws his moleskine on his desk and stalks off toward the bathroom.  
  
“Mr. Eames, come with me. You and I need to have a discussion about workplace security,” he grits out.  
  
“Oh, but  _darling_. . . .“ Eames whines, following him. When the door shuts behind them, Yusuf snorts.  
  
“When are those two going to come out, already?” He doesn’t even glance up from his formulas. Cobb squints, clearly puzzled.   
  
“You mean they  _haven’t_?” he asks disbelievingly. Then he shakes his head and puts the donuts down on Arthur’s desk. He opens the box and takes two Boston Cremes before Yusuf can appropriate them all.  
  


*

  
  
The Mark’s name is David Chen, and he’s the VP of Chen Construction.  
  
The person who hired Cobb’s team is the Mark’s older sister, Helen Chen. She thinks—with good reason, Arthur informs the team—that her brother may be diverting funds from the company’s charitable division, to his own personal accounts.  
  
“They’re definitely being diverted  _somewhere_ ,” Arthur murmurs, looking at the files Helen brought with her. Wandering over from the window—where she’s been standing since she came in, chain-smoking and looking melancholy—she looks over Arthur’s shoulder, and points at a set of figures.  
  
“Yeah, I’m no business major, but when our accountant came to me, even I could tell something was up with  _that_ ,” Helen says, her scratchy tenor sounding as woebegone as she looks. “That’s too much fuckin’ money turning up missing in too short a time. It’s like he  _wants_  to be caught.”  
  
(She pronounces  _caught_  as  _caht_ , just like she’d pronounced  _Boston_  as  _Bahst’n_.)  
  
“Hmm . . . is it possible he’s being framed?” Cobb asks, squinting up at the ceiling thoughtfully, and Arthur grunts.  
  
“It’s possible. But the only other person who could possibly be responsible for these kinds of . . . inconsistencies is the accountant.” Arthur raises an eyebrow at Helen who shakes her head.  
  
“But why would he draw attention  _to_  it if he was the embezzler? If he hadn’t said anything, I would never have known.” Helen says, looking around at all of them as if searching for some answer to absolve her brother  _and_  the accountant. “John Aberforth’s been with us thirty-eight years—he’s a company man. My father trusted him more than just about anyone. It’s not in him to do this—to steal from us, and frame Davey for it.”  
  
“Even if that means your brother’s a thief?” Ariadne asks quietly, and gets the grave weight of Helen’s focus.  
  
“Look, I love my brother more than I love anyone in this world. And it fuckin’  _kills_  me that Davey could be—“ she hangs her head and sits for the first time since arriving, cross-legged on the floor, with her back against Arthur’s desk. She drags on her current cigarette deeply: a lanky, forty-ish woman with chin-length, prematurely graying hair. She’s wearing jeans and a shapeless dark sweater with holes in it. On her feet are a pair of steel-toed workboots that’ve seen better days.  
  
She doesn’t look like anything like Robert Fischer, nor like any CEO Ariadne’s ever seen. Nor does she talk like one, dropping F-bombs like they’re going out of style.  
  
In fact, she drops another one right now, tears running down her face. She wipes them away impatiently.  
  
Eames and Yusuf look away, giving her a moment of privacy. Arthur busies himself with files and Cobb . . . probably doesn’t even notice, as focused as he is on the ceiling and whatever he sees up there.  
  
_Men_. Ariadne stands up, going over to the distraught woman and kneeling in front of her. When Helen doesn’t look up, Ariadne puts a hand on hers and squeezes.  
  
Dark eyes reddened from smoking and tears meet her own, miserable and even a little hostile.  
  
“Look, we don’t know yet that your brother did something illegal. There could be a perfectly good reason that this money is missing,” she says, and Helen sniffs, wiping her face again.  
  
“Oh, yeah? And what reason is  _that_ , Ms. Collins?” she demands, glaring a little. Ariadne blushes, and looks at Cobb for help. He’s still squinting at the ceiling, leaving her to get out of her own mess.  
  
“I’m no business major, either,” she says plainly, and Helen snorts. Ariadne ignores it and goes on. “ _But_ , I’m part of the best Extraction team in the business, and if anyone can find out whether or not your brother’s in up to his eyeballs . . . it’s us. Okay?”  
  
“Yeah. Okay.” Helen sniffs again, leaning her head back against Arthur’s desk and closing her eyes for a moment. “But what if he  _is_  ‘in up to his eyeballs’?”  
  
Ariadne shrugs. “Then you have to decide how to deal with him.”  
  
Helen huffs angrily, shaking off Ariadne’s hand and getting to her feet. “Yeah, well, what if he’s innocent?”  
  
It’s hard to hear the hope in their employer’s voice without feeling a little sorry for her. But Ariadne gazes up at Helen and finds a professional smile.  
  
“In that case, we’re also available to perform an Extraction on your accountant.“  
  


*

  
  
The next day, around noon, Eames makes some noise about going to get everyone lunch, but needing someone to help him carry it all. Arthur immediately goes to grab his coat, but Eames shakes his head, looking both shifty and alarmed.  
  
“Er, no, darling, why don’t you stay here and finish up your . . . whatever it is you do all day, alright? Ari can help me with the food. It’ll give her a chance to stretch those lovely legs.”  
  
“Um. Okay.” Arthur hangs up his coat reluctantly. “Do you even know what everybody wants?”  
  
“The usual, for me,” Yusuf says, and is immediately seconded by Cobb. Eames nods impatiently.  
  
“Yes, yes—and you, darling?”  
  
Arthur gives Eames an acquiescing, but suspicious look. “I guess the usual for me, too. But _without_  mayonnaise.”  
  
“Check.” Eames gives Arthur a slightly mocking thumbs-up and shrugs on his coat. Arthur sighs.  
  
“I swear, Eames, if there’s any mayo on that sandwich, I’ll send your ass back out into the snow to get another.”  
  
“Yes, sir, darling, sir!” Eames salutes the Pointman, who somehow bristles without giving any outward sign of doing so.  
  
“Take Miranda with you, just in case he gets out of line,” he tells Ariadne, who grins, and goes for her own coat.  
  


*

  
  
They return two hours later, sans lunch, Ariadne stomping up the stairs with a downcast Eames in her wake.  
  
“I’m certain Dev’s sorry she put her foot in her mouth, lovely,” he’s saying. When they get to the landing, Ariadne whirls on him, and he nearly falls backward down the stairs.  
  
“She’s a condescending  _bitch_ , so I somehow doubt that!”   
  
“Well—“  
  
“And then she compounded the condescension by comparing Architects to people who practice feng shui!” Ariadne unbuttons her coat, shaking off snow. “Feng. Shui!”  
  
Eames makes an apologetic noise. “Look, lovely, Pointmen are rarely lauded for their  _tact_ —“  
  
“Hey!” Arthur glares, sitting forward in his chair. His laptop whirs happily to itself. “Wait—what are you guys arguing about, and where the hell is lunch?”  
  
“Ask the love-doctor, here!” Ariadne jabs a finger at Eames, who almost tumbles down the stairs again. “He tried to set me up with some up-her-own-ass Pointwoman!”  
  
“Point _woman_?” Cobb interjects from his place near the radiator, upon which he has his feet propped.   
  
“Last time wasn’t bad enough, Eames?” Yusuf notes sadly, and Eames throws a glare his way.  
  
“Last time, sir, was none of your lookout,” he says haughtily, and Yusuf sticks his tongue out, going back to the game of Pong he’s playing on his Macbook.  
  
“Nor is it any of  _yours_!” Ariadne exclaims, restraining herself from kicking him in the leg. Though Lord knows he deserves it. “My love-life is none of your business, Eames!”  
  
“But your happiness  _is_!” Eames sighs, taking her hands. “Ari, I just want to see you happy, instead of lonely.”  
  
“Who says I’m lonely?” Ariadne demands, only to get a  _look_  from Eames. She blushes, and yanks her hands away. “I’m happy by myself. If I get lonely, I’ll get a cat.”  
  
“How original of you: a lesbian with only a cat for company,” Eames says sarcastically. Ariadne sniffs, and stalks over to her desk, where she grabs her moleskine. Taking a page from Cobb’s book, she puts her feet up, and proceeds to ignore everyone. Or at least she tries to.  
  
“So you’re a lesbian?” Cobb asks, and Ariadne looks up and nods warily. Cobb squints at her and she wonders—not for the first time—if he might need glasses.  
  
“Yeah, I—“  
  
“Me, too, Cobb.” Arthur announces gruffly, standing up and shoving his hands in his pockets. “I mean about the gay-thing. I’m a—a gay man. And Eames— _Jason_  and I have been a couple for eight months. He’s gay, too.”  
  
Eames, of course, looks more startled than Cobb does. Especially when Arthur shuffles over to him and puts an arm around him, kissing his cheek then his lips.  
  
Cobb regards his Pointman and his Forger with amusement, though it’s tinged with chagrin. “So, is everyone on my team gay?”  
  
All eyes turn to Yusuf who doesn’t even pause his game.  
  
“Oh, lets leave the Chemist’s sexuality out of it, thank you very much,” he says calmly. “We were talking about Eames’s fruitless matchmaking. And his failure to bring back lunch.”  
  
Now every eye trains itself on Eames, who starts to take a step back and nearly pitches down the stairs for the third time—with Arthur in his arms.  
  
“I, er, promise I’ll never do it again?” he says, grinning. And it’s a measure of how much faith they have in him that no one in the room, his boyfriend included, believes him for a second.  
  
“You’re also going back out there to get lunch. And this time, I’ll come with you,” Arthur says sternly. Eames’s eyes light up and his lips curve in a wicked smirk.  
  
“Oh, I’d love it if you  _came with me_  right now, Arthur-darling. . . .”  
  
“Just count yourself lucky that I come with you at all.” Arthur rolls his eyes, but gets his coat. As they head downstairs, Arthur can be heard to snap: “Get your hand off my ass, Mr. Eames!”  
  
“Well, I guess we just don’t get lunch, today,” Cobb sighs when the door closes behind his Pointman and his Forger.  
  


*

  
  
“So . . . this’s all a dream?”  
  
Arthur nods, sweeping an arm around him at South Boston, and the Dorothy Curran Playground just across the intersection. “Every bit of it. A somnacin-induced dream.”  
  
Now in the role of Tourist, as well as employer, Helen Chen looks around a dream of Old Colony Avenue and Vinton Street with the eye of one who’s spent her whole life looking at the real thing. Ariadne has been watching her examine details of South Boston for nearly two hours, now, and even though she knows her work is flawless, she waits on tenterhooks for the verdict.  
  
“A-fuckin’-mazing,” Helen breathes then glances at Ariadne. “And we’re in  _your_  mind?”  
  
Ariadne nods, unable to tell if she should be insulted by Helen’s surprise. “You’re in my dream. This is what your brother will see when he’s under. And our Forger, Mr. Eames, will enter the dream as well, Forging your accountant, Mr. Aberforth.”  
  
“And between him and your Extractor, they’ll be able to find out if my brother’s been skimming from the till?” Helen tenses, crossing her arms and rocking on her feet . . . heel-toe, heel-toe.  
  
“Yes, ma’am,” Arthur says in his solemn, respectful way. “We’ll get the answers you need.”  
  
Helen nods then walks up to a lamppost and pokes it, as if expecting her finger to go right through it. When it doesn’t, she tries leaning against it. When  _she_  doesn’t go right through it, she looks at Arthur, then at Ariadne.  
  
“And he’s not gonna wind up brain-damaged, or crazy because of this, right?”  
  
“Right,” Ariadne and Arthur promise. But Ariadne feels compelled to add, when Helen keeps looking at her: “You have our word. No one who’s ever been Extracted from has ever been compromised in any way. In fact, the only real danger is to the Extraction team. But—“  
  
“What my colleague means,” Arthur continues smoothly. “Is that your brother is in no danger. And since his mind hasn’t been militarized against Extraction, neither are we. The job should go off without a hitch.”  
  
“Okay.” Letting out a breath, Helen looks around the dream with renewed interest. “So, how real did you guys make all this?”  
  
“It’s pretty real, as you can see,” Arthur says proudly, sending a smile Ariadne’s way. She sends it right back.  
  
“So, you’re saying I could go to Fenway and catch a Sox game?” Helen asks doubtfully.  
  
“Ma’am, Ariadne can put you in the Sky Box for the World Series, if necessary.”  
  
“Yeah, but unfortunately,  _even I_  can’t make the Sox viable for the Commissioner’s Trophy.” Ariadne smirks.  
  
Helen gapes, then her eyes narrow. “You’re a Yankees fan, aren’t you?” She pronounces it _auntchah_.  
  
Ariadne dimples and bats her eyes. “Actually, I’m a Dodgers fan.”  
  
Helen snorts and laughs. “Like you have room to talk about winnin’ trophies.”  
  


*

  
  
David Chen is  _not_  the embezzler.  
  
But he  _has_  known for at least the past few months that Aberforth’s been dipping into the till. And it’s only respect for his late father that’s kept him from involving the law. He’s been hoping Aberforth would quietly retire on what he’d already stolen. But instead, Aberforth’s begun skimming more money, less carefully.  
  
In the dream, David Chen confronts Aberforth after calling the cops.  
  
“I can’t just stand by and let you ruin this company, Uncle Johnny,” he says heavily, as Arthur and Ariadne, the officers who show up to deal with “Aberforth,” lead him away in cuffs. David looks devastated, but resolute. “You were Pop’s oldest friend . . . how could you do this?”  
  
“Money’s money, kid,” Eames-as-Aberforth says quietly, not meeting David’s eyes as he’s led away. “I’m sorry.”  
  


*

  
  
“Well. This sucks,” Helen tells Ariadne. "My favorite uncle's an embezzling weasel."  
  
Ariadne had followed their employer outside after Cobb had handed over the intel. Now, Helen is chain-smoking once more, the wind whipping her hair into her face, and sending smoke into Ariadne’s.  
  
“Yeah, he is.” Ariadne agrees gently. “But at least it’s not your brother.”  
  
Helen looks at her and smiles sadly. “And I’m still over the moon about that. It woulda broken me to put my own brother in prison, but I’d have done it in a heartbeat. Pop built this business from nothing, and I can’t just stand by and watch it all go down the tubes, you know?”  
  
Ariadne nods.  
  
“And fuckin’ . . . Davey’s heart is bigger than his brain. He shouldn’ta kept this from me, but I understand why he did. He didn’t want to see an old man go to prison.”  
  
“So you  _are_  going to prosecute?”  
  
Helen shrugs jerkily. “I dunno. He betrayed us, but . . . he and Pop went all the way back to the beginning; just two Southie boys who came up through the ranks, then made it big.” She takes a deeper drag off her cigarette and waves the smoke away impatiently. “If Pop were still alive . . . I don’t think he’d want Uncle Johnny in prison. I don't  _think_.”  
  
Ariadne thinks about her own father, the kindest man she’s ever known, and sighs. “What do you think he’d have wanted?”  
  
Helen shrugs again. “Fucked if I know. The old man and I never did see eye to eye on anything that didn’t involve baseball or women.” This time, when Helen smiles, it’s wistful and lost in memory. “Dave’s just like him, though. More heart than brains. Maybe  _he_  should be the one to decide what happens to Unc—to Aberforth.”  
  
“But in the dream . . . your brother called the cops on Mr. Aberforth,” Ariadne points out carefully. Helen’s curved brows drift upward, slow and ironic.  
  
“No matter how vivid or realistic, dreams are just dreams, right? What my brother does in them and what he does in real life are two different things,” Helen dismisses. Ariadne, who has her doubts, holds her peace, nonetheless.  
  
“And anyway, if he wants to send Aberforth to prison . . . maybe he  _should_.” Helen sighs again, shaking her head and making hair, snow, and smoke fly. “Fuck, I don’t even know, anymore. All I do know is that I’m glad my brother’s the person I always thought he was.”  
  
They stand there for a few minutes, smoking and freezing, respectively, until Ariadne sneezes. Helen chuckles.  
  
“You’re not used to the winters here, yet. You should be wearing a coat out.”  
  
“Yeah, I really should.” Ariadne laughs, wrapping her arms around herself. She’d been so busy worrying about Helen’s mental state that she’d forgot her coat on the back of her chair. “But I’m Canadian. I’ll survive.”  
  
Helen looks over at her, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Canadian, eh? Well, how aboot that,” she says. Ariadne rolls her eyes.  
  
“Contrary to popular belief, I don’t say 'eh' or ‘aboot.’”  
  
“Except you just did.” An outright laugh that ends on a hacking cough. “Ah, fuck . . . goddamn fuckin’ coffin nails.”  
  
Helen flicks her cigarette into a pile of snow, where it hisses momentarily, before sending up a last plume of smoke. “I think I just quit smokin’ for keeps, this time.”  
  
“Hey, good for you!” Ariadne touches her arm briefly, and Helen snorts shoving her hands in her pockets.  
  
“Not so good for anyone that has to be around me for the next couple of months . . . anyway, y’oughta go back inside before you catch your death out here.”  
  
Hunching her shoulders, Helen walks away without saying good-bye.  
  


*

  
  
The third and final set-up comes post-job, and it’s not a set-up, so much as a grabbed moment of opportunity. This is how it goes:  
  
Eames offers to take everyone out for a drink after the job. They all agree, on the condition that Eames not try to introduce Ariadne to anymore of his colleagues.  
  
“Scout’s honor. No more colleagues,” Eames promises, and Arthur scowls.  
  
“You were never a Scout, Jason.”  
  
“Well, no. But I’ve Forged one. Just kidding,” he adds when Arthur gives him a look that could curdle fresh milk.  
  
They pile into Cobb’s rental, and set off for the bar . . . which turns out to be a club. Specifically speaking, a  _gay_  club. The line outside is long, and filled with club-kids of all genders, people in costumes, and people who, despite the weather, are wearing next to nothing.  
  
“I do hope we can get in,” Eames says worriedly as they get on line. Arthur huffs.  
  
“I don’t.”  
  
Cobb, Yusuf, and Ariadne say nothing, but it’s obvious they’re all on Arthur’s side. None of them except Eames are comfortable in crowds, what with the sometimes extra-legal nature of their work. And Ariadne’s pretty sure that none of them can dance.  
  
Nevertheless, they make it into the club (Ariadne and Arthur get carded) and up to the bar before one of them breaks and decides to run. But, to be fair, Cobb’s had his ass grabbed more than ten times before they get to said bar.  
  
“Uh,” he says, squinting at a man dancing in a cage and wearing nothing but a thong. The cage dancer somehow spots Cobb despite the strobe-lights and crowd, and winks, flicking his tongue in and out rather obscenely.  
  
“I see that  _uh_ , and raise you a  _whuh_ , my friend,” Yusuf says, shaking his head. “I’m tempted to take a pass on that drink.”  
  
“Me, too, actually. I’m really tired, and I’ve got an early flight, and there’s also packing to do—“  
  
Cobb’s gone before he finishes the sentence: just a blond head disappearing back from whence it came. Ariadne, Eames, and Arthur look at Yusuf, who shrugs.  
  
“This really isn’t my scene, either,” he says apologetically. “But I suppose  _could_  stay for one drink if Eames is still buying.”  
  
“I certainly am.” Eames grins, and points off into the crowd. “And don’t look now, Yusuf, but you’ve got an admirer! Wave hello to the dashing bloke in the diaper, and—oh, my, look at that leather riding crop he’s wield—”  
  
Yusuf’s gone the way of Cobb before Eames finishes the sentence. The three of them watch his curly head disappear out the exit then Eames chuckles.  
  
“And that, my loves, is how you get out of buying two straight men drinks,” he says with smug satisfaction.  
  


*

  
  
“Look what Arthur and I found near the loos, Ari!”  
  
“Oh, leave me out of it, Mr. Eames.”  
  
Ariadne looks up from watching the crowd of dancers on the ground level just as Eames returns to their table, along with an annoyed looking Arthur, and a grinning, pixie-ish redhead.  
  
“Um. Hi, guys. And girl,” Ariadne says over the din of the awful techno-trance-whatever the DJ’s spinning. “Do I . . . know her?”  
  
“No! But my name is Feather!” The redhead enthuses, the strobing lights of the club lighting up her glitter-speckled face. “And your name is Arianna, right?”  
  
Ariadne exchanges a glance with Arthur, who then exchanges a glance with Eames, who puts on his most charming grin. Gritting her teeth, Ariadne slaps on a pasteboard smile. “Actually, it’s Trina. Trina DiBello. And I have Herpes,” she says flatly. Feather lights up—although that could just be the glitter.  
  
“Hey, me,  _too_!” she exclaims, taking Ariadne’s hands and squeezing them like she’s found a kindred spirit. “Talk about weird coincidences—do you have Simplex One or Two?”  
  
Even under the lights, Eames noticeably turns a pasty sort of grey.  
  
“Uh,” Ariadne says with weary resignation. “One, I guess.”  
  
“ _So do I!_ ”  
  
“Wow, that’s . . .  _coincidental_. Isn't that coincidental, Mr. Eames?” Arthur glares at Eames, who finally throws up his hands in surrender.  
  
“I give up,” he says, standing and looking around for the second level bar. “I just—I give up. I’ve clearly lost my touch.”  
  
“You ain’t just whistlin’ ‘Dixie,’  _Yenta_  Eames.” Arthur mutters, standing, putting an arm around Eames, and kissing his temple. “C’mon, baby. I’ll start a tab.”  
  
“Will you get me good and drunk, darling?” Eames asks miserably, leaning into Arthur.  
  
“Sweetheart, you won’t even be ambulatory by the end of the night,” Arthur promises, guiding Eames to the distant bar.  
  
“Uh, guys—a little help, here!” Ariadne calls as Feather drags her out of her seat and toward the bathrooms.  
  


*

  
  
After she finally escapes Feather’s clutches, Ariadne takes a taxi back to the loft, instead of to her apartment.  
  
It simply feels more like home than any place she’s lived for a very long time.  
  
_Home_ is _the place where you leave your moleskine at the end of the day_ , she thinks wistfully. Despite the snow and cold, she misses Boston when she’s gone away on jobs, or to visit her family. She misses the food, the sights, and the people. . . .  
  
When the taxi pulls up to the building, there’s someone waiting outside, leaning against the snowy brick façade.  
  
Curious, but not particularly worried, Ariadne pays the driver and gets out of the taxi, hunching her shoulders against the wind. She carefully makes her way to the door, keys in one hand, and the other on Miranda.  
  
But as she gets closer, she recognizes Helen Chen, wearing dark blue jeans, a navy pea coat and the same steel-toed workboots.  
  
“Hey,” Helen says, her angular face crinkling just a bit in an almost-smile. Ariadne returns it, happy to leave the M&P in her waistband.  
  
“Hello.” She holds out her hand for shaking and Helen takes it, her own hand in a fingerless glove. But they’re still warmer than Ariadne’s, and she’s sorry when Helen lets go.  
  
“So . . . what’s up? What are you doing here?” Ariadne asks, and Helen shuffles her feet in the snow and looks everywhere but at Ariadne.  
  
“I was just ringing your bell to—I wanted to say thank you, I guess. For a job well done . . . for giving me my brother back.” The wind whips her hair into her face, and she sneezes.  
  
“Gesundheit, and hey, it was no problem. We were glad to help. It’s not every job that the client gets a happy ever after, you know.” Helen actually smiles now, tight and uncertain. Then she sneezes again.  
  
“Ah, fuck,” she mutters, sniffing and snorting. “Goddamn winters get worse every year. I should move to Florida.”  _Flah-rida_.  
  
Reminded once more of the cold, and that there’s an inside to get to, Ariadne jingles her keys and grins. “Hey, would you like to come up to the loft for a minute? I’m pretty sure there’s some brandy up there. It’ll help take the chill off.”  
  
“I’m sure it would, but I don’t drink. At least not alcohol,” Helen adds and Ariadne nods her understanding.  
  
“I’m not much of an alcohol drinker, either. Caffeine is my drug of choice,” Ariadne says self-deprecatingly.  
  
“Ah, a woman after my own heart.” That wide smile makes an appearance again then Helen clears her throat. “I don’t know how long you’ve been in Boston, but have you ever heard of the Boston Common Coffee Company?”  
  
Ariadne shakes her head no, and Helen’s grin changes, becomes something almost fond.  
  
“Figures not. Out-of-staters,” she says then chuckles. “Anyway, they make the best damned cup of coffee in the state, if not the country. So many different brands, it’d boggle your mind.”  
  
Ariadne pockets her keys and leaves her hand in there. Her fingers feel like ice cubes. “Wow, it sounds epic. Where is it?”  
  
“I could, uh . . . show you where, if you like. They’ve got a location right near the Paul Revere House.” Helen looks down at her feet, then up at the sky. “Maybe we could get a cup of Joe, and you could tell me how someone gets into the dream-sharing business?”  
  
Ariadne’s eyes widen, and she blushes. “I—yeah, that’d be really cool.”  
  
“Great! I’m, uh, parked right over there,” Helen points to a yellow-and-black Challenger across from the loft. Ariadne’s mouth drops open.  
  
“That’s  _yours_?”  
  
“Yeah.” Helen grimaces. “But lemme guess: you’re a Mercedes girl, right? Or, no—Beamer?”  
  
“Bite your tongue!” Ariadne starts across the street, walking around the Challenger once she reaches it. It’s all sleek lines and smooth curves: a beautiful mix of old and new. “This is an SRT8, right? Pure sex on wheels.”  
  
No answer, and when Ariadne glances over at Helen, the woman is gaping at her like she just spoke Romanian.  
  
“What?  _Not_  an SRT8?”  
  
Helen shakes her head as if trying to wake herself up. She smiles wonderingly. “Uh, yeah, it is. Hole in one.”  
  
“I knew it.“ Ariadne brushes a bit of snow passenger side mirror. “She’s gorgeous.”  
  
“Yeah, she is.”  
  
Ariadne blushes again, knowing that if she looked up, Helen’s eyes wouldn’t be on the Challenger.  
  
But she doesn’t look up, and Helen suddenly busies herself with finding her car keys. When she finds them, she shuts off the security system with a discreet beep, and unlocks the doors.  
  
She even jogs around to the passenger side to open Ariadne’s door for her with a muttered: "Lemme get that for ya."  
  
“Wow, chivalry isn't dead—thanks,” Ariadne stammers, finally meeting Helen’s gaze. It’s direct and admiring, bright and unabashedly  _interested_.  
  
“I’m the one who should be thanking  _you_ , Ms. Collins.”  
  
“Please . . . call me Ariadne.” When Ariadne flashes her dimples, Helen swallows and closes the door. Once she’s settled in the driver’s seat, she starts the car; it comes to life with a low, powerful rumble that sends shivers through Ariadne.  
  
Or maybe that’s the way Helen is grinning at her in the rearview mirror.  
  
“Buckle up, Ariadne,” she says.  _Ari-aahdne_.  
  
Ariadne does so, archly returning the grin. "You, too, Helen."


End file.
